


Liar

by drunktuesdays



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M, Magical Realism, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 19:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13464771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunktuesdays/pseuds/drunktuesdays
Summary: When he gets to the office, he flings the door open and shrieks, “I’ve beenhexed.”





	Liar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [longnationalnightmare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/longnationalnightmare/gifts).



> This is a birthday fic for my personal shero, longnationalnightmare, who delights me on a daily basis, and deserves everything good in the world. Happy birthday, darling.
> 
> Beta'd and enhanced by kalpurna, without whom I would never accomplish anything.

It goes like this. One night, at Lovett or Leave It, he’s looking for people to play a game, and this girl stands up and looks at him and raises her hand. She is _not_ wearing merch, and she _is_ freaking him out in some way that he can’t quite articulate, so he doesn’t choose her. He chooses someone else, a grandmother named Sandy who is very cool and calls him ‘doll’ which he didn’t think he would like, but then it happened and he _did_ like it, so everything should have been fine. Great. A solid show.

Instead, when he’s coming out of the Improv’s back door with Pundit, ready to walk home and maybe get a quesadilla on the way, the girl with the weird eyes is waiting for him. She says something he doesn’t understand, and he’s pretty sure he says “What?” but then the next thing he knows, it’s morning, he’s in bed, and Pundit’s asleep on his shin.

“Weird,” he says to her, making her lift her head and squint at him. But he’s been sleep deprived ever since they got back from Europe, so whatever; he grabs his sneakers and takes her out for a walk.

The first clue that something’s gone wrong is at the Starbucks at the end of his block. He hates giving his name as Jon, because there’s always eight of them and he ends up having to fight someone for possession of his coffee. And it’s always _mortifying_ when he tries to give his last name, because they always think he’s doing some weird Paris Hilton “love it” thing and say, irritated, “What’s your NAME.”

So usually, he tells them his name is Garth. Partly because it’s a funny name, and he likes making people say it. Mostly because it always makes Jon choke and turn red and that’s always fun. _Jon_ doesn’t have any problems giving his name to baristas. Sometimes he says Jon, and when his drink comes, he glides peaceably through the other Jo(h)ns as they part like the Red fucking Sea. Sometimes he says Favs and no one ever even asks him to spell it. Sometimes he gets his cup, and someone’s written a phone number on it with a little heart. But Jon’s blessed existence is a rant for another wheel entirely.

Today, Lovett gets to the counter, and gives his order just fine. But then they ask his name and he says “Jonathan Ira Lovett” which is super weird and not at all what he meant to say and the barista gives him a look like he’s fucking with her, which he _wouldn’t,_ not during coffee rush hour on a damn weekday.

“Okay,” she says, and writes _jonathan_ , which he hates but he meekly walks away from the encounter, clutching his stupid drink in bewilderment. Weird.

As he walks to work, he sees someone he vaguely knows from the gym--Josh, he thinks, or Justin. They exchange friendly nods as they pass, and Josh/Justin says, normally, like humans do when they pass someone they don’t give a fuck about, “Hey, how are you?”

Instead of saying “fine” or “good” or any of the other options in the dreaded small talk social contract, Lovett instead says, “Confused,” which, while accurate, is _not_ a normal thing to say at all.

Josh/Justin stops walking to look at him uncertainly but when Lovett doesn’t offer anything to follow that up with, he says, “Uh, okay. See you at the gym later?”

“Probably not, I’m faking a knee injury with my trainer even though I’m still paying for sessions,” Lovett says, and cringes the whole time it comes out of his mouth. _Why why why why why why_ , he chants inside his head as Josh/Justin stares at him. He does the only thing he can do and flees the scene.

He gets to the office in record time, head down the whole way, and he’s almost into the elevator when Cindy from the floor above Crooked yells, “Hold the elevator!” He does, and she smiles at him gratefully before stooping to pet Pundit. “She’s such a good dog,” Cindy says. “Is she always this well-behaved?”

“Sometimes she barks during pod recordings,” he tells her. It’s the final straw. When he gets to the office, he flings the door open and shrieks, “I’ve been _hexed.”_

No one even looks up except Leo, who leaps on Pundit. “Excuse me,” he says, and slams the door against the doorstop again. “Pay attention, I’m suffering.”

Tanya, the love of his life, the only person who cares about him, pauses her typing and looks at him inquiringly.

“Thank you for asking,” he says, and throws himself down in a desk chair. He tells her all about the weirdo with the eyes at the show, and maybe seeing her afterwards and how he possibly blacked out, and then about Gym Guy, and lady who works upstairs--”and so anyway, I’ve clearly been hexed to tell the truth, which is like--why me? Why not a member of Congress, or like--Sean Hannity. What impact on the world does me telling strangers what I had for dinner make? Honestly, I think this witch needs to figure her shit out.”

There’s silence for a moment and then Elijah, from Big Marco’s doorway, says slowly, “--and so you’re saying you can’t lie to us right now.”

“Yeeee-ah,” Lovett says, hesitantly. He’s aware, all of a sudden, that he has the attention of the entire office, and it’s a bit like being a huge ass worm in a tank of piranhas.

“Did you raid the NatureBox before anyone else got to it?” Tommy asks.

“Yes,” Lovett says. “But I feel like if I brought it up from the mailroom, I should--”

“Are you blanking my email about Portland because you don’t want to deal with it, or is it really being marked as spam?” Corinne says.

“Okay, yes, I’m ignoring it,” Lovett says, “but you asked nine hard questions in a row, and you know--”

“Did you really have a schedule conflict, or did you blow off Corinne’s boyfriend’s open mic night to play video games?” Tanya says, and Lovett thinks furiously how much she is _not_ the love of his life and he hates all of them when--

“Wait no,” Elijah says, grinning. “When’s the last time you got laid?”

“That’s enough,” Jon’s voice cuts through, but it’s not enough to stop Lovett’s stupid mouth. He widens his eyes at Jon across the room as his mouth starts to shape the words and Jon adds on, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Red,” Lovett says in a grateful rush.

“That’s nice,” Jon tells him. “Do you want to work from home for the rest of the day, while the rest of us try to figure out who that woman was?”

“I do want that,” Lovett says, and picks up his drink and Pundit’s leash and escapes.

The compulsion doesn’t work over Slack or text message, a fact Lovett is exceedingly grateful for, and which gives him the opportunity to berate his traitorous asshole coworkers for their behavior. Then he actually does start working on his answers to the Portland trip email, and the other six emails Corinne has sent him this week, and shuts the laptop when he finally hits his limit. He stands up, stretching his arms up to the ceiling until his back finally cracks satisfyingly.

Pundit comes running when she hears him moving around and flops down at his feet, whining tragically. “Okay you big baby,” he tells her. “I’ll rescue you,” and goes into the kitchen to feed her. While she’s eating, he pops open a La Croix and drinks it, staring out the back window and for a minute, wishes he could lay on the floor and whine pathetically until someone rescued _him_.  But that’s a dead end, so he puts it away.

He’s just re-settling himself on the couch when he hears Jon let himself in.

“Hey,” Lovett says, cautiously, watching Jon close the door behind him and shrug out of his jacket.

“Hey yourself,” Jon says, and he comes right over to sprawl onto the couch next to him. “We figured out who your little friend was. It’ll wear off after 24 hours. You’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Oh,” Lovett says, and he hates--he sounds so _nervous_ , and he wishes, not for the first time, that he was ever any kind of actor. He wonders if he could get away with standing up, moving to the other side of the room. “Thanks. Could have texted me that.”

“Could have,” Jon agrees, “but I wanted to talk to you.”

“We have to do this now?” Lovett says, and he does stand up, hunching his shoulders up to his ears.

“While I’ve got you as honest as you’ll ever be?” Jon says, dryly. “Yeah, we have to do this now.”

“That’s immoral,” Lovett says. “That’s not--it’d be ethical to wait 24 hours before you say--whatever you’re gonna--”

“Well you’ve been avoiding me,” Jon says heartless, and looks up at Lovett, who hasn’t managed to move away; he’s just standing there like an idiot, swaying into Jon even now. “I don’t give a damn about--Lovett, do you _regret_ it?”

“No,” Lovett says, hating every second; even hating Jon a little bit, for forcing this, forcing him to have this stupid, awful, humiliating conversation when Lovett was handling it, no fucking need--

“Then why--” Jon starts and Lovett cannot let him get _that_ question out.

“I told you, it’s not a good idea _._ ”

“Who says,” Jon says, finally standing up. Lovett takes a step back almost into the dining room _Too close, too close._ “Who says it’s not a good--not the _best_ idea?”

“Me,” Lovett says, “I said, and I’m still saying, we were _drinking—_ ”

“But not drunk,” Jon says. “Were you drunk?” He looks darkly satisfied when Lovett shakes his head. “You liked it. What we did—you _liked_ it.”

“Yes,” Lovett whispers. It hadn’t been a question, Jon hadn’t even asked, but Lovett—

Jon is up in a blink, shoving him back against the dining room table, trapping him against the edge. One arm snakes around his back, holding him in place, and the other hand tilts his chin up until they’re kissing, hard and filthy and just like last time. And just like last time, Lovett isn’t stopping it, spreads his legs for Jon to crowd between, melts for him, and it’s stupid and he shouldn’t--

“C’mon,” Jon says against his mouth, “c’mon, let’s just--” and then Lovett is letting Jon tug him into the bedroom, past his unpacked suitcases and piles of unfolded laundry, right onto the bed he hadn’t let Jon in last time, last week, when he and Jon had-- “Pay attention,” Jon says, crawling over him. He yanks Lovett’s shirt up so it’s rucked messily under his armpits.

“I _am_ ,” Lovett complains, and then shouts when Jon bites his nipple, jerking his hips up to ride Jon’s thigh for a long minute. “Fuck, you gotta--Jon, let me get my pants--move, Jesus.”

“I’ll do it,” Jon says, swatting his hands away, fumbling at Lovett’s drawstring and then yanking his pants and underwear down in one motion, ignoring Lovett’s aggrieved yelps, because _maybe_ you want to be careful but no, not--

He loses the plot for a while, after that. It’s easier that way, closing his eyes and letting himself get swept away under Jon’s hands; he can pretend that this isn’t a car crash, that this isn’t going to end up blowing right up into his face. Jon hasn’t gotten _that_ memo, and keeps saying “look at me” and “eyes on me, Lovett” and yanking him back into the moment. “Do you like this,” he says, sounding desperate, fucking into Lovett like he belongs there. “Lovett, it’s—is it good?”

“Yes, you fuck.” Horribly, he feels tears welling up in his eyes as he arches under Jon’s hands, needing to come so bad—and then he is coming, and Jon won’t stop looking at him at all.

As his heart rate slows back down, his higher brain functions are coming back online, and he’s realizing all over again what an _idiot_ he is, how he could have—

He’s gotta get out of here. “Get off,” he says thickly, shoving at Jon’s shoulders. “Get off, get off, get _off.”_

Jon pulls out and levers himself up a bit, letting Lovett slide out from under him and stand up. Humiliatingly, he can feel come dripping out of him and flushes. He needs Jon to leave _right now,_ and tells him so.

Jon stares at him. “Why don’t you--”

“Be very,” Lovett cuts him off, “careful what you ask me right now.” He pulls up a pair of clean shorts with shaking hands. Fucking _fuck._

“I don’t have to--Lovett, you don’t regret it. _Neither do I_ . You weren’t drunk, neither was I, and we _definitely_ weren’t tonight. So why are you--”

“It’s not a good idea,” Lovett bellows, “because I’m not you. I’m not you! I can’t just walk around and have you be _everywhere_ , have you be in my work and my social life and in my fucking--” he stops and laughs to himself for just a beat, “bed, or whatever the fuck-- It’s too much.”

“ _I’m_ too much?” Jon says, and Lovett can’t help it, he does look up, and it’s a mistake, because the look on Jon’s face makes him want to bury himself in ten miles of concrete.

“No,” Lovett says, “that’s not what I-- I am not built for this. I don’t-- What would happen when we broke up? If you didn’t--it would be too much.”

“We wouldn’t,” Jon says, certain. He’s moving closer again, and Lovett wants to back up, but doesn’t, holding still.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Put a truth spell on me.”

“Hex,” Lovett corrects, and he doesn’t move when Jon reaches out, curling a hand around his waist, tugging him close. “It’s a bad idea,” he says again, uselessly.

“Isn’t,” Jon says.

He sounds smug, like he’s already won, like the argument is over, and Lovett is gonna disabuse him of that notion, except he’s tired, and Jon is insistently drawing him back down into the bed, under the covers. “We’re gonna be great.”

“I hate you,” Lovett says into his collarbone. Jon curls his fingers into Lovett’s hair, scratching lightly, comfortingly.

“Liar,” he says.

 


End file.
